“Well what?” Jack asked. He squeezed by the others to plop down in his seat.
“Are you still employed?” Chet asked.
“Seems that way,” Jack said. He started going through the lab reports in his in-basket.
“You’d better be careful,” Laurie advised as she started for the door. “They can fire you at their pleasure during your first year.”
“So Bingham reminded me,” Jack said.
Pausing at the threshold, Laurie turned back to face Jack, “I almost got fired my first year,” she admitted.
Jack looked up at her. “How come?” he asked.
“It had to do with those challenging overdose cases I mentioned this morning,” Laurie said.
“Unfortunately, while I followed up on them I got on the wrong side of Bingham.”
“Is that part of that long story you alluded to?” Jack asked.
“That’s the one,” Laurie said. “I came this close to being fired.” She held up her thumb and index finger about a quarter inch apart. “It was all because I didn’t take Bingham’s threats seriously. Don’t make the same mistake.”
As soon as Laurie had gone Chet wanted a verbatim recounting of everything Bingham had said. Jack related what he could remember, including the part about the mayor and the Commissioner of Health calling Bingham to complain about him.
“The complaints were about you specifically?” Chet asked. “Apparently,” Jack said. “And here I was being the Good Samaritan.”
“What in God’s name did you do?” Chet asked.
“I was just being my usual diplomatic self,” Jack said. “Asking questions and offering suggestions.”
“You’re crazy,” Chet said. “You almost got yourself fired for what? I mean, what were you trying to prove?”
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” Jack said.
“I don’t understand you,” Chet said.
“That seems to be a universal opinion,” Jack said.
“All I know about you is that you were an ophthalmologist in a former life and you live in Harlem to play street basketball. What else do you do?”
“That about sums it up,” Jack said. “Apart from working here, that is.”
“What do you do for fun?” Chet asked. “I mean, what kind of social life do you have? I don’t mean to pry, but do you have a girlfriend?”
“No, not really,” Jack said.
“Are you gay?”
“Nope. I’ve just sorta been out of commission for a while.”
“Well, no wonder you’re acting so weird. I tell you what. We’re going out tonight. We’ll have some dinner, maybe have a few drinks. There’s a comfortable bar in the neighborhood where I live. It will give us time to talk.”
“I haven’t felt like talking much about myself,” Jack said.
“All right, you don’t have to talk,” Chet said. “But we’re going out. I think you need some normal human contact.”
“What’s normal?” Jack questioned.
9
* * *
WEDNESDAY, 10:15 P.M., MARCH 20, 1996
Chet turned out to be extraordinarily resolute. No matter what Jack said, he insisted that they have dinner together. Finally Jack relented, and just before eight he’d ridden his bike across Central Park to meet Chet in an Italian restaurant on Second Avenue.
After dinner Chet had been equally insistent about Jack’s accompanying him for a few drinks. Feeling beholden to his officemate since Chet had insisted on paying for the dinner, Jack had gone along. Now, as they mounted the steps to the bar, Jack was having second thoughts. For the past several years he’d been in bed by ten and up by five. At ten-fifteen after a half bottle of wine, he was fading fast. “I’m not sure I’m up for this,” Jack said.
“We’re already here,” Chet complained. “Come on in. We’ll just have one beer.”
Jack leaned back to look at the facade of the bar. He didn’t see a name.
“What’s this place called?” he asked.
“The Auction House,” Chet said. “Get your ass in here.” He was holding open the door.
To Jack the interior looked vaguely like his grandmother’s living room back in Des Moines, Iowa, except for the mahogany bar itself. The furniture was an odd mishmash of Victorian, and the drapes were long and droopy. The high ceiling was brightly colored embossed tin.
“How about sitting here,” Chet suggested. He pointed toward a small table set in the window overlooking Eighty-ninth Street.